


The List

by graceandkooky



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 02:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11266059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandkooky/pseuds/graceandkooky
Summary: Frankie has left for Santa Fe and, a week later, Grace and Frankie try to deal with their emotions.(This has a happy ending I promise! I suck at summaries.)





	The List

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of the original work that I posted on my tumblr. Let me know what you think! Please be kind because it's my first G&F fic. Comments are very much appreciated!

**9:00pm, Santa Fe**

Grace wrote her a list before she left. Her daily dos and don'ts, which Frankie really should detest, she really should. Reminders to stay away from sodium, to check her blood pressure, to take her pills. Things Frankie resents and despises. Or at least she would, usually. But the letter has not left her side since she found it tucked in to her suitcase a week ago. Not once. Not even when she takes a shower - she’s perfected the art of plastic-wrapping it to protect it from the steady fall of water (after several failed test-runs with the daily newspaper).

She always takes it out as soon as Jacob leaves the room. Scoffs at the absurdity of it all. The tone of it is so Grace - patronising in a way that honestly, she thinks, she should hate. She would have hated. But she doesn’t. Somehow, now, she has to admit that she finds it, inexplicably and almost laughably, sweet. Because Grace wants her to stay healthy. To live happily. To stick around for the next twenty years. Because Grace cared enough to write it. Because actually, she realises, she wants Grace to care.

She pulls it out from inside her shirt - from the little pocket she’s haphazardly stitched in near her chest. The one that now exists in all of Frankie’s clothes. Jaggedly sewn squares that fortunately don’t show too much from the other side, in everything from dungarees to her favourite pair of pajamas. She wonders, briefly, if Grace knows that her red silk set is missing. Wonders whether she’ll know Frankie has taken it. Wonders what she’ll think about it if she does.

She rests the flower-shaped paper in her palms. A piece torn from the block on the fridge. Their fridge, with their yam lube and overflowing amounts of cheese, and fresh olives for Grace’s martinis and her face cream that she insists needs to stay cold. Their fridge, with the magnetic letters Frankie ‘borrowed’ from Macklin so she could write cuss words at Grace when she was giving her the silent treatment. With the picture that Maddy had drawn of her 'grandmoms’ holding hands on a (rather too stony and red) beach. With the photo of their whole family at Coyote’s sobriety ceremony.

She focuses back on the note in front of her. Squints. She needs reading glasses really, she dares to admit to herself. But she only wants Grace’s. The bold, black frames that she always inwardly smirked at - the ones she thought were too bulky for Grace’s thin face. She wants them.

She brings her index finger to the page, tracing over the neat, curled letters. Smiles that, despite all the signs it is Grace who is responsible for the list - the strict, underlined instructions - the words 'don’t try me, Frankie’ written in red - there is something else there, too. Little phrases like 'touch base with Joanne’ and 'at least clean your bong’ slipped in organically, because Grace knows her, and knows how she operates. Yeah, it is Grace who wrote it, but it is a Grace who has a Frankie.

Frankie pulls her hand back, bringing it to her sternum and resting it there while she looks up at the stars. Wonders if Grace can see them, too. Wonders if they look just as blurry to her. As the first, heavy tear falls onto the paper - the sacred paper - the paper Frankie has never let near the sand, never let near to her bonfires - she makes out the last instruction with no visual aids needed (she’s read it a thousand times). Cradles the now blotchy and almost unreadable list to her chest. '15. Please don’t forget Grace.’

**8:00pm, San Diego**

Even if she wasn’t brave enough to hand it to Frankie herself, Grace is comforted by the fact that she wrote Frankie a list. That it will keep Frankie safe. If Frankie sticks to the instructions that is, which, knowing Frankie, seems unlikely. Impossible even. But she dares to hope. Because Frankie seems to love Jacob, and Grace thinks that maybe it will motivate her to want to be in good health. To be around for the next few decades. Knowing Frankie, Grace laughs, to be around for the next millennium. She’s certain Frankie will be expecting some funky spirits to rise up and she’s sure - _sure_ \- that she will want to be there for that. Grace only wishes that she might want her around for that, too.

She’d debated penning the letter for a long time, afraid that Frankie might see it as a nagging gesture - a final attempt to hold on to someone who obviously wanted to go. To be away from her constant stream of rules and scoldings. To be away from her. _Her_ , with the borderline drinking problem, and acidic quips, and throwaway insults that honestly she regrets the moment they leave her. _Her_ , with the apparently never ending procession of fuck ups that seem to get worse even as she tries, desperately, to be better. To be a better person for Frankie, because she truly wants to be. Has genuinely tried to cut down on her knee-jerk cynicism, her biting remarks and her innate stubbornness. Has tried to be open and giving with Frankie - _softer_ , and quicker to believe in the good.

But it isn’t enough in the end, she thinks. Jacob has all those things down to a T already, and there’s no point waiting around for a train to be built when there’s one already waiting at the station. When the one under construction is still trying to learn how to even find the tracks.

Grace isn’t sad Frankie left, she tells herself. She wants her to be happy - wants for that so much. She wants her to experience life, and love, and become all that she dreams of becoming. Wants her to be fearless, in a way that Grace doesn’t dare to believe that she herself ever will be. She’s just sad that Frankie no longer needs her, she reasons. And really, if Frankie doesn’t, is there anyone to need her at all?

She scoffs at her own dramatics. Pushes open the back door and walks barefoot to their sun loungers. She imagines she can smell pot and patchouli on the breeze. She remembers Frankie’s hair. How tendrils of it twist in the wind when they bury their toes in the sand and talk about the old days. How they talk about the new days as well - the ones filled with Vybrant and Del Taco and Cinnabon. How Grace loves making promises and kissing Frankie’s forehead and building something new, together. How she feels like a new person with a new purpose.

She remembers Frankie’s laugh when they knocked over Babe and scrambled to put her back together. She wonders how she will put herself back together now. She wants to scream, she really does. Breathes in the scent she is pretty sure left her a week ago. Pulls Frankie’s muumuu around her more tightly. Looks up at the stars with misty eyes.

**10:00pm, Santa Fe**

Frankie can’t call Sol, she decides. He is too emotional for this, too likely to veer off the road into a wheat field, or a hedge. Bud is busy preparing for the baby and rallying to meet Allison’s every need (which she imagines are quite extensive and out of whack). She doesn’t want to call Mallory, with the kids, or Brianna, who has probably polished off several drinks already. Doesn’t want Coyote hurling there in a panic. And she can’t ask Jacob, of course. Not now - that’s out of the question.

She picks up her cell - the one Grace insisted she learned how to use properly - and scrolls through for the name that shows up the size of their fridge magnets on the screen. She hits dial. Waits for Robert to answer.

**9:00pm, San Diego**

Grace finally decides that it’s time to start the nightly routine. No point in staying up and mulling over where things went wrong. Why Frankie hasn’t called her once since she left. Why it bothers her so fucking much. Even so, she walks into Frankie’s art studio, stomach packing punches as it always does when she smells the paint in there. Makes herself stand in front of her portrait - fangs and martini glaring back at her. Makes herself remember that’s not who she is anymore, even if its painter isn’t around to see the changes. Makes herself promise not to go back. Promises, she thinks, really aren’t the same without Frankie. She makes one anyway.

She walks on to the back porch with a few handfuls of grain in a bowl. Several leaves of kale for good measure. Sets them down.

She goes back inside - locks the doors, checks the windows, lights her grandmother’s lamp. She double checks the windows. She wants to feel safe. And safe means the studio blankets as well as the muumuu in Grace’s bed. Safe means rubbing patchouli oil into her hands, because Grace can’t bear to forget the smell. She wants to feel safe, even though she knows safe is almost 900 miles away.

 **3:30am, San Diego  
**  
It’s hours - _and hours_ \- later, when Frankie steps out of Robert’s car. She stretches out her limbs. Walks around for a few moments, as if it will make up for the most ill-advised plane ride she’s ever taken. Grace will go ape when she finds out, she laughs. It will be all flailing hands and curse words. All referring back to the list. All reminding her how much, Frankie now realises, Grace couldn’t tell her. How much Grace gave up. How much Grace wanted her to stay.

For a moment she worries that maybe Louise is back now. She as good as promised Grace she’d be there, always - that Grace wouldn’t need a gun to protect her - and she wonders if she’s fucked it up. Wonders if Grace will even want her to return.

But she spots the giant women’s shoes slipped faithfully beside the door - sees a sports show playing through the thin strip in the curtains - sees more lights on than there should be, even if Grace was awake - and her world aligns again. She turns back to Robert, offers him a teary grin as he walks towards her, suitcase in tow. He pulls her into a loose hug and pats her on the back. “Thank you,” she manages. “Thank you for picking me up.”

He winks, and then moves towards the car. He calls, quietly, just before the door closes. “Go get your girl, Frankie.” She hears him. Sends a quick prayer up to the god of the week and picks up her things. Unlocks the door, slides off her clogs, and tiptoes inside.

**3:35am, San Diego**

Grace thinks she must be dreaming when she feels the bed shift beside her. She squeezes her eyes tight, cursing her brain for its cruel irony. How she never truly wanted Frankie in the bed until she was too far away to reach out for. How she found everything about Frankie maddening until she realised it really made her feel alive. How maybe, if she was honest with herself, she had actually needed Frankie there all along.

She lets out a wail - a keening sound that is just about enough to break Frankie’s heart. Frankie speaks from behind Grace. Softly, as if learning to talk for the first time. “Hey, stranger.” She reaches out, gently stroking her finger over the shell of Grace’s ear. Grace takes a deep breath, one heavy with disbelief. Rolls over.

Frankie’s smile is immediate and dazzling and Grace thinks she would know that smile anywhere, even in the middle of a St. Patrick’s Day parade. She’d know it from the other side of the earth which is where it feels like Frankie has been. “Are you real?” Grace whispers, eyes bright with brimming tears that Frankie can see even in the low light. Grace moves closer. Uses her fingers to trace the shape of Frankie’s face. She touches her as if she might be magic, or a trick of the moonlight.

“Yeah, baby, this here is the real-deal Frankie Bergstein.” She chuckles. “Actually, I’ve heard rumours I’ve got an impersonator running around the mid-West somewhere but that’s still under investigation. If the police bozo even wrote down my complaint, which I don’t think he did.”

Grace’s eyes crinkle at the sides and she permits herself a shaky grin. She tries to hold it steady. Tries to hold herself steady, but her lip quakes and a sob betrays her as she leans to press her forehead against Frankie’s. “I missed you so much.” She can’t keep it in at all then, tumbling into the blizzard of tears that has been threatening to devour her for the past week. Since before then, even. Since Grace first heard the words 'Santa Fe’ leaving Frankie’s mouth.

Frankie lets Grace cry, gathering her up in her arms. Holds her as tightly as she can. She remembers her ruined list. Remembers her own (selfish, she now thinks) breaking point. She will hold Grace forever if the other woman needs it. “I missed you, too. So fucking much. Turns out being me’s actually no fun unless it’s driving you up the wall.” She leans back so that she can look into Grace’s eyes. “So I’m here on my proverbial hands and knees - because my real ones just can’t manage it, I’m sorry - to ask you if you’ll have me back here.”

Grace sniffs, tears slowing down now. “Have you back? To steal the covers, and kick me in my sleep, and consistently mispronounce the word 'Vermouth’? To tell me I’m being 'persnickety’, and steal my hairpins to unclog the shower drain - which you always manage to drop down there - and to put the salt and sugar in the wrong shakers?”

Frankie nods. Shrugs sheepishly. Grace laughs, a wonky grin making its way across her face once more. Speaks as if she’s in awe. “I’d like that very much.” Frankie laughs then, too. Gleefully launches a few centimetres forward. Collides her mouth with Grace’s own unshakeable smile. Grace gasps into the kiss, and then it’s a frenzied rush of trying to pull each other closer. Of trying to heal and cherish each other with their lips and fingertips. Of realising they can see the stars properly for what seems like the first time.

**5:00am, San Diego**

Much later, after what Frankie describes as the “raddest make-out session of the motherfucking century”, Grace is curled up in her embrace, not quite asleep. “What made you decide to come back?” She asks quietly. Tentatively, as if she’s afraid of what the answer might be. Frankie kisses her nose, internally knocked for six by the fact that Grace seems unsure despite what has transpired between them. Despite where they are right now, together.

She knows there are things they need to talk about - emotions they need to process and discuss. She knows some of it can wait until morning. So she just presses another kiss to Grace’s lips, which she cannot believe she managed to deny for so long, and then speaks slowly. “The list you made me. I didn’t keep it safe enough and I ruined your writing. I need you to write me a new one.”

Grace looks at her as if that’s the last thing she’d been expecting. Then grins, nodding, as if it’s the most well-reasoned answer in the world. “I can do that. I’ll pin it to our fridge in the morning.”

Grace yawns, turning over and snuggling back into Frankie. Frankie nudges her. Blows air onto her cheek for comic effect. “Hey, aren’t you gonna say goodnight, Grace? Huh?”

Grace groans, rolling over and pecking Frankie on the mouth. “Goodnight, Grace.” She smirks, so proud of herself. Flips back over. Frankie squeezes her a little bit tighter. Chuckles. It’s only then that Frankie notices Grace is wearing her orange muumuu. Notices that also, in her haste to call Robert for help with airline tickets and to fling things madly into her suitcase, she never changed out of Grace’s pajamas.

**10:00am, San Diego**

Frankie’s eyes crack open and she squints against the light coming in from under the shutters. Grumbles into her pillow. Finally sits up and notices that she is alone in the bed. Worries for a moment before she hears the faint whirr of a blender downstairs. She meditates for a little while before venturing out from beneath the covers. They smell like patchouli, she muses, and Grace’s million dollar perfume. She sighs contentedly and basks in the rightness of it all.

Grace isn’t in the kitchen anymore when Frankie eventually makes it down there, but there is a melon and banana smoothie waiting for her on the counter. She takes a swig of it, turning to the fridge to grab some cream cheese. Spies the note. She picks up Grace’s glasses from the island. Pushes them up high onto the bridge of her nose. Expects a barrage of mandates. Sees only one. 'Remember that Grace loves you. She’ll take care of the rest.’ Frankie doesn’t think she can get any happier.

**10:15am, San Diego**

Frankie rushes outside, nearly colliding with Grace as she hurls herself through the doors to the back porch. Cannot believe her eyes. Grace is crouched in front of her, hands full of corn, feeding two small hens. She tilts her head up at Frankie when she hears the commotion and stands to greet her. A shy smile weaves its way onto Grace’s face as she speaks. “Morning, sweetheart.” Frankie squeals with glee, capturing her in a hearty embrace. Grace giggles, kissing Frankie’s cheeks.

“Grace! You got _chickens_!” She is dizzy with delight. Feels like she might still be asleep. Grace seems embarrassed suddenly, as if searching for a way to explain. She turns back towards the wooden coop. Gestures to the clucking birds. Offers her words meekly. “Meet Mary and Jane.” She looks hesitant. Frankie claps her hands together, still overwhelmed by Grace. By her ability to throw her for a loop. By the ridiculous names that she’s chosen. She cups Grace’s cheeks and kisses her full on the mouth.

When Frankie releases her, Grace studies her face. Watches her eyes fill with emotion and crimp in the corners. Rests her head against a welcoming collarbone. “It was too quiet when you were gone,” Grace sniffs, “and too damn clean.” She lets out a breath she forgot she was holding. “I took Maddy to the rescue centre and I saw them and they - I - I mean,” she swallows, “I didn’t realise there were so many things I wanted to give you until after it was too late. But I brought them home anyway.” She scoffs, remembering her own foolishness. “I suppose they just seemed as lonely as I was.” A mortified expression comes over her then. As if she has revealed too much. As if she can’t believe she’s admitted that out loud.

Frankie grasps her hand, twining their fingers and pressing their foreheads together. “I’m sorry, Grace. Jesus, I’m so out of this world, set myself on fire, cosmic level sorry that I didn’t see what was right before my two little peepers this whole fucking time.” Frankie thinks she might collapse under the weight of it. Might spontaneously combust from her own idiocy. Might never forgive herself if she doesn’t manage to say what’s coming next. “But I love you, Grace Hanson. I’m talking like a freak load. Like a fucking tsunami. Like a planet’s lifetime’s worth, if you’ll let me, and even if you won’t.”

Grace gives her a watery smile. Nods. Breathes in patchouli and sawdust. “I love you, too, you loon.” She laughs. “But now that you’re here, I hope you know you’re gonna be the one cleaning out the chickens.”

  
Frankie guffaws. Beams. Revels in the silliness of the moment - the coziness. “I promise,” she replies, finally. She seals it with a kiss, and finds that she’s happier still.


End file.
